


Babies of Father Sky and Mother Ground.

by Heartswell



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Asphyxiation, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-14
Updated: 2009-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:18:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heartswell/pseuds/Heartswell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan and Brendon are two peas in a melting pot. They're bound to each other.<br/>One wants to be in the other shoes. Brendon has his way out in his head and Ryan's way out is in his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Babies of Father Sky and Mother Ground.

We're drowning in a mess that's looming over our shoulders, over our heads and over our bones. Every little steel string it spewed sank deep into our flesh; we couldn't even move. We're miserable, we're happy, we're bound to each other, we're bound right to the muscles and tendons.  
It's overwhelming and we can't break free. We're not connected by anything other than faces, by skin, space and our extreme humanity  _and those strings, dyed red with our blood and rust. Red strings of fate binding us together forever and ever._

We couldn't be more different; yet, we couldn't be more alike. We both want to break free. Me from the thing that's binding me away from death, Brendon from what's keeping him alive. I crave the sweetness of the light slipping away from my sight. He covets release. He wants to taste the actual world for once, but he can't. He's always high; never had the chance to come back to Earth. And it's not his fault; never thought it was.

To make it more simple, I wanted to taste everything in slow motion, listen to nothing but my own heartbeats, the scenes that you couldn't see anywhere else. Scenes of heaven, illusions or reality? I want to find my halo. And halos grow on heavenly trees.  
While Brendon . . . Brendon was stuck with his little blood-red tail. Stuck with his addictions, stuck with himself and everything around him. He's so doused in sin that he couldn't even breathe without God's pens running out. Killing holy ink one by one, blackening everything page by page.

I need to find my halo. He wants to cut his tail loose. Angel chained to the ground and devil cornered in the sky. That's the underlying irony of it all; similes and metaphors not far from the truth. Me and him formed a  _we._  That signifies more than one person, right? In this case it signified union. Water and fire, moon and sun, gold and silver. They overshadow each other when they're put together. They cancel each other out. Looking up at the bright sky, staring down at the dark ground.

We're bumbling little boys, awkwardly playing Devil and Angel and looking at places we could never read. We're simple, we're stumbling to find what we want and it's like life: it's never what you want it to be, you never know where you'll end up. Then you beginning to wonder: is it my fault, or is it God's? After all, he's playing with us, watching us, like a writer seeing his words come to life, immersed in colors and animated with  _his_  passion. Funny, isn't it? God's the one tying us where we are, he's the one holding my halo hostage, he's the one who'd sewn Brendon's tail with those rusted threads.

He gave us life, he's written out our lives since the moment we were mere cells. He watched us spackle ourselves into what we are. It's our fault, and it's his. He's holding my halo way up up up in the sky; holding it since the start of time.

Time's my biggest enemy; time's God's biggest alley; time's my diminishing fuse between life and the other world.  
And the present's my biggest challenge.

See that light? See that mess of blinding blue, sun-white and bright revolving yellow? That's your human light. That's what you can describe, what you can  _see_  with your eyes. The lights I want, the lights I need, are the ones you can  _feel_ ; the lights that show up when you close your eyes and stop needing what humans need most: air. That thick and heavy air that weights down your lungs, your body, even your blood.

That's what I do to see those lights; I get rid of air. Even for just a fraction of a second. I let go of air, I feel invincible,  _just for that fraction of a second_ , then I crash back to earth with those tons and tons of gas atoms dragging me down. That's what I'm doing now, that's the only thing I  _can_  do.

A belt, a pair of hands, tape and a plastic bag; any will do. Leave me alone in the dark just to see the light.

That's what I'm doing now. I'm on the bed, wrapping that exotic sea-blue bag around my neck, my face, my vision then slowly, and carefully, twined almost half of that duct tape roll around my neck. Brendon's in the corner of the room, spewing his insides and swimming in them. But he doesn't really care. He's high.

The room's dark, but I can't see anything, so it doesn't matter. He doesn't care anyways. We're both lost in what we hate and want.

It's a bad thing to do, right? Not very sane of me, but I had to do it. He had my fucking halo.  
I'm listening to Brendon's choked heaves in the background of my head, muffled and distorted by the thumping of my heartbeat. It's thumping so loud that my eyes feel like they're going to explode within my head; my head is going to explode within my head.

 _The world's turning reddish black, it's copper and beating on my eyes telling me to see what I'm doing; see why that halo isn't worth it. But Brendon's clawing at his own flesh and he doesn't really care about his tail now; see? Demons and Angels aren't the same._   
__

__I'm tasting the copper-red-turned-black world. It tastes like my lungs. It tastes like my tears. It tastes like_   _me._   _I'm like an earthquake in the making, shivering in order to split myself in half. Half of my mind is already split, paling white and dimming black. My eyes're scraping the white and just sitting in their place; they're gonna blow up sooner or later, but I need them to see that halo that halo that halo that halo that beautiful pretty halo that I can't get no matter how much I want it.__

 _The background's full with crashes as he stumbles around breaking picture frames and taking their glass out, just to trace the tail that's sprouting from his spine. I can't see my own eyelids, but I do hear the sound of blood sliding between the glass and his skin, as it thrusts in and out in and out, wait, that's used to hear because I can't sense shit. I can't even sense the tape around my neck. It's been digging there for a while but it doesn't hurt since I'm just so damn absorbed in my halo and beating ears._

There's a faint crash. There's the feeling of clumsy fingernails tumbling over the nape of my neck, searching for something. Then there's the cool cool air fluttering into my chest as the sun-yellow light begins to drizzle into my eyelids and pour into my eyes.

And those fingernails smell like vomit. They smell like Brendon's insides and stomach fluids, enough to make me puke, but I can't really smell anything right now. My head feels like a dead limb already; the vision's still a smudgy copper-red, bordering on sepia now.

There were no lights this time. Just flashes of them, like erratic strokes of glitter on the inside of these eyelids. Except that they didn't burn. They didn't burn. Instead . . . God . . . they felt like heaven; a white-hot pulse that insanely thumped and thumped between all the tangled oxygen-depraved thoughts and veins.

Now there's those clumsy fingers again. Still reeking of stomach fluids but they're latching to where the duct tape was before; they're trying to see if there's still a pulse. He's being stupid; but, then again, he's high. I'm not dead. I can't be. I won't be.

I'm still alive and gulping down air with my heart thrashing like a wild fish. It's like a battle in my chest now.

I still need my halo. Just like the way he stupidly needs to get down from the skies.

I listen to his dismembered words as he starts scraping the floor, every suffering  _scraaaaatch_ embedding itself into the background of my mind; my hollow spent mind as I laid on the floor next to his rainbow pools of puke:  
"You got it, right? Tell me you did? One of us has to get it . . . one of us has to." his scraped vocal chords chime to himself and himself alone. I wasn't really listening. He was high, and I was empty.

And he didn't know about my halo.

"I-anna-top-akin'-dese-drugss . . ." His speech is eating itself up, but I could work with what he's spitting out for now, "ey-ever-erk."  
 _They never work._  Neither did the belt, the tape, or the rope.

"Ya shouldn't." If I can't get my halo, I won't let him go back to Earth. A cruel boy clinging to that little red line tied between our little fingers. "They won't kill ya." Yet. They won't kill you yet. "May-bee it's bett'r if ya go ta the sky once 'nd fer all."

"E-skyis-ut-'or-ee."  
The sky's not for you.

"This place . . . 'snot f'r me."

"Ell-e-ou-ot-it-ell-e-ou-id."

"That'd be-a lie. Angels don't lie." But he didn't know about my halo.

"You're no angel." That's the only clear part I heard but, maybe, I made it up. His tongue's restless as a worm when he's like that. Then he went back to rolling around in his own puke and running in it through his hair.

I feel like flying. Again. Brendon's still on the floor; he's giggling now. I look at him, strange and sort of . . .  _macabre_  in his manner. He's pretty macabre in the way little bits of half-digested tomato peels are stuck to his cheek and pea-green is littering his stubble, but that isn't the point. He doesn't feel a thing right now, so my fingers are on his belt. I slide it out of the loops after I unbuckle it; it's good leather.  
And it's around my neck. It's so smooth and wet around the sticky aftertaste of the tape. It's easier to control and take off.

And I squeeze and I squeeze and I squeeze till I can't hear him anymore.

I saw the flashes of white again; it reminded me of yesterday. When I went to the window, watching the sun light inflate, and I saw birds; pretty doves doused in hues of powder-blue and peach. They were a soft white underneath the colors; they were pure white; flying throughout the delicate blanket of colors in the sky. I wanted to shoot them down.  
I needed those wings; those white wings so I can go to heaven and get my halo.

"Yer-fulla'shitRyan, an' Angels ain't fulla'shit." His speech is all weird, but I can't hear much of it. The world's copper-red once more, and I can't hear Brendon's macabre laughs as he twirls his tail underneath his stomach-acid stained pants.

I'm holding my hand, rubbing it against my hot-cold face; I'm interlacing it my other hand; my right hand that's desperately crawling for the leather, the hand that's almost blinded by the copper-red world. Each finger is holding back its brother and I'm a little bit closer to the light; each lost breath is compensated by particles of snow-light. It's cold this time. The light's cool this time and my head's not throbbing anymore. I'm up and away and I'm separated from the world that Brendon's tied to for now. He's a liar: if I was fulla'shit, how did I get up here?

The leather's burning against my sweat is the only reminder of my humanity right now; I feel like an Angel, I'm light, I'm seeing the light, and I'm this close--inch close--to getting my halo. God's not so bad, right? I don't want to die, he'd be pissed if I was doing this 'cause I want to run from that hell down there. But I'm not, I just want to ask him for a halo. Maybe I'd ask him to do something for Brendon's constant highs, let him stop, kill him, anything to put him back on-in-the ground.

I want to take a deep breath and talk to God. Wait. I can't. A black and blue larynx, crushed on the inside, can't take in much air really. The fuck . . . I can't even fucking ask him now, fuckfuckfuck. ThinkingaboutGod, I can't see no God. There's no light anymore.

Where's the light? I'm not dead and I'm not on Earth. There's traces of leather in my skin, where's Brendon? Where're his fingers? Where's the vomit and ceiling? Where's the red string? Where's the red string, the red string that gets blurred in the copper-red world? Where's the rotten damp scent of our air?

I'm not dead, I'm not dying, dying's just a stupid trick, right? Because I'm not dead. Yet, I can't see the non copper-red world. I can't see the blue of the walls and the filthy blackened brown of the floor. I don't think I can see much. I can feel my free pinkie and naked nape.

Heaven's not a burnt black.

Heaven's not a burnt black, and you know it, heaven's not a burnt black and they know it, heaven's not a burnt black and I know it. Black's not a color for halos and I know and you know it.

Heaven's not a burnt black and I know it. Heaven's not a brunt black and you know it.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated. I experimented with stream of consciousness, so if you manage to find any flaws, let me know.


End file.
